As The Past Flickers Out
by TK Catsby
Summary: Resurrection, it seems, comes with a price. One that leaves Chrom frustrated and confused, and Cat more lost than ever before. Chrom/Cat (male MC, also featured in 'Stumbling'), with a bit of Sumia/Chrom and Cat/OC-angst, BL, exploration. Rated M for future chapters.
1. Forget-Me-Not

**Hey guys. So this is the start of the new project I've had in mind for Awakening. It's kind of a sequel to the game, but really the sequel to my other Chrom/Cat (my male MC) fic, Stumbling (which is really just a collection of drabbles that would end with the end of the game... if that makes sense). You don't have to read Stumbling first... but it would probably make all of this one make a whole lot more sense.**

**I really liked how open the ending of the game was. It left me with lots of potential angst feels.**

**Takes place after the avatar-final-blow ending. Two years have passed. Unlike Stumbling, this is going to actually have a cohesive narrative and (sort of) pre-planned plot. That means chapters will usually be longer, but they could also take a while to update. Please just keep this in mind.**

**Without further ado...**

***Warnings: male/male relationships, angst, probably language and violence, and smut in future chapters-don't like, don't read.**

***Note: I don't own Fire Emblem.**

* * *

Chrom sits with his elbows braced on the desk, forehead resting in the palm of one hand as he pours over the documents in front of him. They're nothing particularly interesting; military plans, political letters, the usual. The lord is dressed as casually as his station will allow, eyes blank and a bit distant as he works his way through the pile. Skim, stamp, repeat. Skim, stamp, repeat. Finish one pile, move on to the next. Move on.

Chrom has always hated this sort of work. There's nothing to be done about it, though; he's the king. Some things just have to have the king's approval, Frederick has said. Chrom doesn't really get it—he never has—but after years of this sort of work, he supposes that he's gotten used to it.

It's an easy cycle that doesn't require much thinking.

Chrom likes that part, at least.

After all that happened, he's alright with mindless distractions. This sort of work keeps him occupied. He still hates it, but he knows that it keeps him sane. Skim, stamp, repeat. The ink that he uses is a dark blue, the color of sapphire. He stares at it for a moment—on some shipping document having to do with the recovering Plegian economy—and then moves on.

The door in one corner opens, and Chrom blinks, glancing up over the thin rims of his reading glasses. "Frederick," he greets vaguely, and forces a small smile as he nods at the other. "What's up?"

"Still doing paperwork, my lord?" The knight isn't wearing his armor right now, and Chrom notices, a little distantly, that he's thinner than he used to be. He's lost muscle mass. It's no surprise, really; the injuries he sustained in the war never did quite go away.

"Hm." Chrom confirms, sitting up a bit and watching as the other walks over to the window. There's a faint rustle of papers as he opens it, but the breeze isn't strong enough to blow anything out of order. Once his knight, then his adviser, and now a close friend, Frederick no longer feels the need to ask permission for every little thing. With the fresh air and change of pace, Chrom blinks a bit and rubs at his eyes. "What time is it, anyway?"

Frederick peers out the window for a moment. "Time for you to take a break, I'd wager," he says, in a light, easy voice. "The servants were preparing afternoon tea, but apparently you told someone not to disturb you?" His dark eyes slide over to the other, one eyebrow arched slightly.

"Did I?" Chrom leans back and stretches in his chair, letting out a faint groan. "I suppose I might as well go," he murmurs after a moment, half to himself. He's not sure if he really wants to, though. It's so easy to just sit here and skim, stamp, repeat…

Frederick eyes him for a moment, one hand light on the windowsill as the breeze tousles his soft, brown hair. His gaze travels carefully over the lord's features, until Chrom notices and stops, blinking at him a little strangely.

"Frederick?"

"Actually, my lord," the knight says suddenly, in a steady, determined voice. Chrom can tell that he's going to ask suggest something before he goes on, and he knows that whatever it is, he won't take 'no' for an answer. "I had something else in mind."

Chrom finally sets his seal down and closes up the little pot of ink. He leans over the desk a bit and gazes up at the other, glasses on the end of his nose. "Let's hear it, then," he prompts after a moment, in a patient voice.

Frederick's eyes flicker to the window again, and then back to Chrom. "I was thinking that perhaps the two of us could go for a ride along the city borders," he explains. _Ah, _Chrom thinks. So that's why he's in civilian clothes. Though of course, Frederick the Wary still has his sword strapped to his hip. "I think it would be good for you to get out," the knight continues, giving the lord a look as if it's not really a suggestion.

Pressing his lips together into a slight frown, Chrom averts his eyes for a moment. Well, he really doesn't _want _to, but… he can understand what the knight is trying to do. Frederick is worried about him, and it's really not surprising. For that matter, he probably should be worried about him, though Chrom hates to acknowledge that. He hates to admit that there might be something wrong with this picture; him, the hero of Ylisse, wielder of the divine blade, Falchion, sitting inside all day doing paperwork. For many, many days in a row. It's not that he doesn't still train on a regular basis, but it's true that he hasn't exactly gone out just for the sake of going in… quite a while.

The old Chrom, he thinks, would've been one to go out often, probably with his motely band of warriors, to help those in need and take in enigmas passed out in the grass.

But the old Chrom died a year ago; no, perhaps even before that.

Chrom doesn't want to go out, but he knows arguing will be more trouble than it's worth. So he agrees, with a reluctant nod of his head, "All right," and pushes his chair back to stand.

Frederick smiles again, faintly, though it looks a bit like butter scraped over too much bread. "Glad to hear it," he says, walking with the other towards the door. "You'd best put on something less conspicuous than that, though, my lord."

"Yes, yes." Chrom pulls his glasses off and snaps them shut, tucking them into his breast pocket. "Mother."

-o-o-o-o-o-

As they prepare their horses in the stables, hoods drawn up to keep unwanted questions away, they're interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat, loudly. Chrom is still for a moment before straightening and sighing a bit, giving Frederick a pleading look to which the knight just grimaces. No salvation comes, though, and Chrom is obligated to turn and smile sheepishly at his wife.

Sumia cradles their three-month-old daughter in her arms, a slight, knowing smile on her face as she raises one eyebrow at Chrom and his companion. It's not that she's particularly obnoxious or trying on Chrom's patience; it's just that he had hoped they'd be able to go out for their little stroll without anyone else knowing about it. If he is going to disappear, he wants to do it properly.

"Going somewhere?" the pegasus knight asks, in a soft, gentle tone of voice that Chrom knows he doesn't deserve. He doesn't, because it doesn't mean anything to him; it's not the voice he wants to hear, but then, that's something of the past, something he has to move on from. Here, he has a life, and a future, and even if he doesn't feel anything for Sumia in turn, the happiness of a good friend is worth a bit of inner turmoil.

"Just out for a stroll, milady," Frederick supplies, watching as Sumia walks closer to Chrom, holding the infant Lilian close to her chest. Lilian, because they'd decided that one Lucina was enough. Unable to return to her own time—a time destroyed—they'd felt it wouldn't be right to treat her as a copy.

Chrom's smile softens a bit as he take Lilian obligingly into his arms for a moment. The baby with downy, blue hair looks up at him and coos softly in some form of recognition. "We won't be gone long," he says, leaning in for a soft peck of Sumia's lips. "Frederick just thought that I needed to get some fresh air." And he rolls his eyes slightly because that's what the old Chrom would do.

Sumia isn't an idiot. She can see through it clearly enough, but chuckles a bit in turn. "You have been a bit of a shut in lately." But she knows Chrom, and she knows that he used to do this sort of stuff all the time, and really, even as a king, he has to be allowed to go off on his own sometimes. She takes Lilian back from her husband and steps back a bit as they return to their tack. Her soft, hazel eyes track Chrom as he adjusts a few more clasps and then swings up onto his horse. "Just be careful. Won't you, dear?"

Chrom nods, guiding his horse carefully past her. "I have Frederick with me." He cracks a slight grin. "What could go wrong?"

-o-o-o-o-o-

Their ride out of the city is easy. Chrom rides beside Frederick, but follows the knight's lead, uncaring about where, exactly, they end up, or if they ever end up anywhere at all. If it were up to him, he thinks that he wouldn't mind just riding on forever; picking a direction and going at a steady pace until he, his horse, or both succumbed to exhaustion. As it is, though, it's not up to him. So he follows the other's lead when he used to be the leader, engaging in thoughtless small talk without really keeping an eye on their surroundings.

Once upon a time, Frederick probably would've scolded him for doing something like this on his own. He probably would've told him it was too dangerous to patrol the borders with only one other person, and told him to keep his ears open and his eyes peeled, because bandits, assassins, Risen, or any combination of the three could be around any corner. As it is, though, things have been painfully uneventful for the past year and a half, and even Frederick the Wary has decided that they can afford to take it a little easier.

None of them have much to lose, after all. Chrom keeps this particular thought to himself, though, burying it close to his heart with the other things he refuses to reveal.

"It's been a bit too peaceful lately, hasn't it?" Frederick comments absently as they pass into the more rural part of town. "Not that I'm complaining," he amends quickly, shrugging vaguely on his horse.

Chrom nods, not looking at him, eyes focused on something in the distance, something unseen. "I feel like none of this is real," he murmurs. "As if it's some illusion." He focuses on the other. "The calm before the storm, so to speak."

The lords first comments make Frederick frown a bit, but he nods towards the end, eyes a bit weary. "That's probably not a bad mentality to have," he says, in a quiet voice. "Peacetime has lulled many rulers into a sense of false security. We never know what new threat could hit us."

Chrom barks a thin, mirthless laugh at that. "You say that so calmly," he mutters. "As if it would be perfectly natural and expected if an army rose up out of the ground right before us."

"Well, they would probably fall out of the sky," Frederick corrects easily, brow drawn into a look of mock contemplation. He shrugs at the look Chrom shoots him, features settling back into his usual, more serious expression. "But I'm only saying that we should stay on our toes. The kingdom is still recovering, after all."

And he's right; all of Ylisse is still recovering from the war that very nearly devastated their entire country. More than that, though, _they're _all recovering, he thinks; those who took part in the final battle. Recovering… Though Chrom doesn't know if that's the right word for it. He feels as if he's just been stagnant lately. Stationary. Not moving forwards and not falling back.

He exhales faintly, rolling his shoulders a bit and looking ahead. "That's true," he agrees again, tone resigned. It's then that he notices something and stiffens a bit in his saddle, head turning to look around him. They're riding along an abandoned dirt road now, bordered by a trickling creek on one side and a small field on the other. The field is beautiful, with healthy, green grass, and a sprinkling of soft, blue flowers.

Forget-me-nots.

Chrom recognizes this and stops his horse suddenly. Suddenly, there is a strange pressure in his chest, rising up and pressing against his throat. Frederick pulls his reins as well, circling a bit to give Chrom a questioning look. "My lord?"

"Why are we here?" the king asks quickly, in a slightly wavering tone.

Frederick just blinks at him for a moment, surprised, and frankly a bit concerned by his lord's tone of voice. He looks around them, horse pacing slightly. Why were they here? Well, frankly, Frederick had just been going wherever his instincts guided him. Taking in their surroundings, he pauses as his eyes scan the field to their left. _Ah… _He sees, then, and presses his lips together a bit. Ah, this was really a little foolish of him, wasn't it?

He's about to turn around when something a ways off catches his eye. It's in the shade of a tree standing alone in the field beside them. Frederick stares for a moment, eyes widening.

Chrom doesn't… Chrom doesn't want to be here. He keeps his gaze trained on the creek near his horse's hooves, reluctant to look anywhere else unless his emotions decide to betray him. The pressure is still there, though, and now he's finding it a little hard to breathe around the lump in his throat. _Gods, get it together, Chrom._

But he can't. He can't stop thinking about ink.

"… Let's just go," he says eventually, in a low voice, turning his horse away from the field and keeping his head down as he starts back.

Frederick's voice stops him, though; "My lord… Over here."

Chrom turns to look at him over his shoulder, blinking a bit, features set into a tight frown, because _what? _What is so important? He complies in guiding his horse back towards the other, though trotting a bit to catch up with him. Frederick is heading towards something, and Chrom looks from him to the field, a pained look on his face. "What is it?" he asks.

Frederick points. "Look under that tree."

Chrom squints a bit, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. At first, he just sees the grass shifting lazily in the small patch of shadow, but then… then he catches sight of something black, with gold accents that flicker slightly in the sunlight, and…

He stops, dropping his hand, lips parted into a look of disbelief. _No, _he thinks, instinctively. _This can't be real._

It can't be, because he's prayed for it so many times already, dreamed of it. Surely this is just an illusion. Perhaps he's fallen asleep at his desk and is dreaming, or maybe he's finally started going mad in his emptiness. Whatever it is, this can't be real. Chrom can't accept it—not with only a glance—because he doesn't want to get his hopes up. He doesn't want to be lulled into a sense of false security. After two years, though, truly, he doesn't know what he wants anymore, and now, with this, he feels as if any construct of sanity he had is teetering on the edge.

Chrom feels as if he might break if this turns out to be a cruel joke.

He's afraid to move any closer, afraid of what he'll find, but…

At the same time, he can't tear his eyes away, and the more he looks, the more familiar the figure is. With hair the color of night and that familiar, Plegian garb… Chrom can see how pale his skin is from here, and it makes his chest tighten, his knuckles going white around the reins.

"Gods…" he breathes. It can't be, but…

Before he is really aware of what he is doing, Chrom is swinging down from his horse. Frederick is silent as he follows, walking stiffly, but no less hurriedly as the lord stumbles across the field. Chrom beats back his doubts and shoves his emotions down his throat as he drops to his knees at the unconscious man's side. For a moment, his hands hover helplessly over his chest, frantic, and hesitant, unsure like butterflies, because does he really dare touch him? Does he really dare…?

This is a dream, Chrom thinks. It has to be. But the spring breeze feels so real, and this person before him is so flawless, so perfectly like the man that he once knew, that Chrom…

Chrom can't help it. He caves.

"Cat," he says, in a breathy voice, and finally ventures to touch the other, fingertips brushing a pale, white cheek. At the contact—the feel of that smooth skin against his own—Chrom feels as if he might cry, or scream, or laugh; he just feels _alive._

For the first time in over a year…

"Cat," he says again, and this time his voice is a bit louder. He leans over the other, slipping an arm under the raven's shoulders to lift him into a sitting position. He gets a flutter of ink black lashes in response and swallows. "Hey!" he hisses quietly, tapping the other's cheek a bit. "Cat… Wake up…"

Frederick crouches near them, but doesn't touch the raven, doesn't speak, doesn't want to encroach on something he probably shouldn't even be seeing.

Chrom isn't thinking then, not really. He's not thinking about what this means, how things have changed. All he's thinking about is the man in his arms, and the feeling of incredible, elating relief coursing through him. He feels like he's let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, as if finally, after all this time, he is grounded again.

He feels some flicker of the old Chrom. Some flicker of fire. And he wants to kiss the other, hold him tight and never let go. _I'll never let go. _Not this time… Though at the same time, he wants to smack him, because if he just hadn't been such a _fool _two years, ago, then none of this would've happened, he wouldn't have had to live this waking hell, waiting and waiting for something he never thought he'd get back.

Chrom exhales shakily, eyes flickering over Cat's features as the raven shifts, lets out a small groan, and then finally opens his eyes. The lord can't help it then, the way his features break into a small, smile on the brink of tears. He swallows again, thickly, clutching the other's shoulders a little tighter and thoughtlessly taking hold of one hand. "Hey," he says, and finally, at the sight of those sharp, black eyes, allows himself to accept.

This is real.

This isn't a dream, or a nightmare, because it won't end. He won't wake up. _Gods, _if he did, he doesn't know what he'd do… Beating that thought back, Chrom squeezes the other's hand slightly.

"Welcome back," he says, in a voice that's threatening to crack.

Cat stares at him for a long moment, a somewhat dazed look on his face. That's only natural, Chrom thinks. Who knows what he's been through in these past two years? It's only natural for him to be fumbling, and out of it, so the lord waits patiently for the recognition to flash across his features and everything to get better.

When Cat finally opens his mouth to speak, though, the words aren't what Chrom expected.

In fact, they're the furthest thing possible from what Chrom wanted to hear.

"Who… are you?"

* * *

**Haha, I bet a lot of you guys hate me right now. Well, we shall just see how things progress, yes? Before you guys start freaking out too much, I will say that his amnesia is not going to be totally permanent... So don't get your panties all twisted in bunches, okay?**

**This fic will probably get pretty long... I can't say for certain. So, uh, buckle up for a bumpy ride?**

**Also, I just found the image of Chrom wearing reading classes veeeery appealing. Don't ask me why. Unf.**

**Thank you so much for reading!**

**Please leave a review if you can. I'm always open to feedback, questions, etc.**


	2. Dear

**Chapter two took a bit. Wrote this in several sittings. I've hit a little bit of a block already, but playing through Awakening again has helped me.**

**Anyway, not much to say about this chapter. I hate Sumia, I haven't decided how old Morgan is, and there is a lot of angst. That's about it. Hope you all enjoy it.**

***Note: I don't own Fire Emblem.**

* * *

The hallway is silent, save for the sound of Chrom's footsteps; boots on thin carpet, _one two, one two. _Sumia sits in a lounge chair across from the cherry wood door, arms empty. Lilian has been put to bed already, and really, Chrom doesn't think he would want his daughter here now, anyway. He doesn't want his wife here, either—his _wife_—but he says nothing to keep up their fragile façade. Whatever is left of it, that is. Chrom can feel something in him cracking, and whenever he glances at Sumia, he can only wince and look away again.

_Gods, _he thinks. He's really a horrible person…

It's been almost an hour since Lissa shut herself away in Cat's room. His room, Chrom thinks, because it's the same one the tactician used to stay in, whenever he visited the castle in the past. His room that he lived in for two years of peacetime once, before everything went to hell with Grima's awakening. His room, the one Chrom has left untouched and unwilling to enter. He never would let them do away with his things, though. _"That would be giving up," _he said once, when a little band of maids offered to clean it out.

_That would be acknowledging that he's gone._

Now it's his room again, and Chrom can feel it—he can still feel the other's weight in his arms and see that look on his face, that expression that'd twisted into…

Chrom stops pacing for a moment, right hand curling into a fist. _Dammit, _he thinks. _Dammit, dammit, dammit—! _

He still can't get that image out of his head, the blank, unrecognizing light that danced in Cat's eyes, just as he can't stop hearing those three words, echoing inside skull; _"Who are you?"_

_Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?_

Chrom doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't want to acknowledge that it's true, doesn't want to think about what it means. But the sick, heavy feeling is potent in his stomach nonetheless, and no matter what Chrom does, he can't seem to stop his heart from aching. Two years. It's been two years, and Chrom's wedding band suddenly feels heavier than ever.

Gritting his teeth a bit, Chrom looks straight ahead and keeps pacing.

"Dear," Sumia says, in a feather light voice that makes Chrom want to puke. "Sit down." She pats the arm of the empty chair beside her.

Chrom doesn't respond. He barely even looks at her.

"_Dear," _she says in a slightly firmer voice.

"I don't want to, all right?" Chrom snaps, and catches himself a half-second later, eyes melting into something apologetic. This isn't right, he thinks. He shouldn't be taking out his frustration on Sumia. She hasn't done anything wrong; it's _him _who's a horrible husband… Stopping in his tracks, Chrom rubs the back of his neck for a moment and exhales. "… I'm sorry," he murmurs, quietly.

Sumia just shakes her head slightly. She doesn't get angry with him—she never does—but Chrom can see shadows dancing in her eyes. "Just try to calm down a bit," she says; a polite suggestion or perhaps a plea—Chrom doesn't know.

He deflates a little, guilt settling somewhere in his stomach. After a moment of silence, he nods, reluctantly, because the pegasus knight is right. Nothing good will come of his pacing, and being so frantic won't change anything. Nothing will. Not now, when they don't even know what's going on. Chrom can only wait. Sighing, fingers twitching a bit, the lord moves towards the empty chair obligingly.

As he sits down and glances at Sumia, though, he feels like a liar. He feels horrible.

The queen forces a small smile and reaches for his hand.

That's when they hear footsteps, though; hurrying down the narrow hallway. The king and queen look up to see a boy with black hair running towards them, silhouetted against the graying window at the end of the hall. Chrom's features twist slightly when he recognizes him. This is a face he's had trouble with, a person who's brought up such a turmoil of emotions in these past two years that Chrom hasn't known what to do but avoid him.

_You had a promise keep… _he thinks bitterly. But he hasn't. He averts his eyes guiltily as Morgan comes to a halt before them.

"I came as soon as I heard," he manages, panting a bit with his hands on his knees. He's grown taller in the months since Chrom last saw him, and glancing up, Chrom can't help but notice how his build has stretched slightly into that svelte form he's so familiar with. It's another similarity that would usually make Chrom cringe. Now, though… Now, the memories are something concrete lying in the closed room in front of him, and Chrom finds that he can look at the boy without feeling empty.

Looking up, green eyes bright with worry, Morgan swallows and glances once towards the door. "Are we allowed to see him yet?" he asks, a little desperately.

Chrom notes that his hair is longer, too, spilling over one shoulder in a small, black ponytail. His eyes soften a bit and he looks at the door as well. "Not yet," he murmurs, "Lissa wanted to do a full examination. They're trying to figure out what's wrong, and how much—" He hesitates, finds himself stumbling over the words.

Morgan cuts in anyway, eyes widening, voice cracking slightly with worry. "What's wrong?" he echoes, straightening with shoulders tense. "What do you mean?"

_Ah. He hasn't heard. _Chrom looks at him for a moment, really looks, and when their eyes meet, there's a flicker of something, some realization that passes between them. Morgan's lips part as he remembers, and Chrom swallows something in his throat, trying to keep his composure. He knows. Morgan knows. Even now, Chrom can still count the number of people who know on one hand. Morgan was the accepting one, the support that he and Cat so desperately wanted, he…

He _understands._

Trying to keep his breathing steady, Chrom answers, haltingly, "He didn't…"

Morgan waits silently, for once.

"He didn't recognize me…"

And the silence that follows is deafening, in its own right. Morgan's eyes are wide as he stares at Chrom, still straight-backed and tense, until the words sink in and he deflates a little, shoulders sagging. For a moment, he looks like he might collapse. "That's…" He drops his gaze to the floor, searching the dark green carpet for some sort of answer. But there's nothing there. Morgan swallows, thickly. "That's not…" He doesn't know what to say.

Chrom lets out a sigh, bending over and putting his head in his hands. He can't do this, he thinks. He can't, but he has to. He wants to. But this Cat… This Cat is something foreign, and fragile, and all of the walls that Chrom once torn down are likely back up, he just _knows _it…

Sumia reaches over and puts a hand on his shoulder, but Chrom doesn't feel it. Her lips are pressed together, expression unreadable.

There is no third chair, so Morgan stumbles into the nearest wall and puts his back against it, staring at the floor, and then the ceiling, and then the door that stands between him and his father. He tries to convince himself that this will be okay. Surely, Cat remembers some, he just…

_But how could he forget Chrom? How could he forget the person that Morgan knows was most precious to him?_

Then the door opens, and all three sets of eyes flicker up to land on Lissa's face. The cleric's expression in impossible to read, though, and she refuses to meet any of their gazes. It's timid and unlike her, and it makes Chrom even more worried than he already is.

"You can see him now, if you'd like," she says, in a quiet voice. "Though I think one at a time would be best…"

Chrom doesn't move, at first. He doesn't know what to do, doesn't know if he trusts himself to go in there and face the other, because how… how is he supposed to do this? What is he supposed to say? Suddenly, he's afraid. He's afraid of who he'll meet.

Cat is back, but…

When Chrom doesn't move, Morgan glances at him, searchingly, perhaps imploringly; as if he needs permission, which is ridiculous—Morgan's never asked for permission in the past, and he's Cat's _son. _Surely, he should be the first to see him. _Excuses. _Chrom doesn't look back at the young tactician, and finally, when the silence starts to get to him, Morgan steps forward and slips into the room.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Cat sits up against the headboard of the dark wood twin bed, hands fidgeting in his lap as he gazes out the window. The blonde girl—Lissa, she said her name was—is seated in the chair to his right, scribbling something down in a notebook she holds in her lap. Cat isn't sure what she's writing, but he also isn't entirely sure if he cares. It doesn't seem very important in light of the current situation. Cat's eyes track a sparrow as it flutters to a branch outside the window, but it flies off again as Lissa speaks up.

"All right. That's probably good." Cat looks at her as she flips the notebook closed and smiles at him. He doesn't return the smile, but he appreciates the sentiment, at least.

"No more questions?" he asks, in a slightly apprehensive voice.

Lissa shakes her head. "Nope. No more questions."

Cat breathes a very faint sigh of relief, letting his eyes drift over to the window again. "Good," he murmurs, in a slightly distant voice. _Distant, _he thinks, is a good word to describe how he's feeling right now. He feels as if he shouldn't be here; as if there's something much more important that he's supposed to be doing. Though Lissa claims to know him, Cat can't help that he feels no connection to the girl at all. Nothing she's telling him makes any sense…

The last thing he can remember… The last thing he can remember, he was traveling with a trading caravan to Ylisstol. He hadn't had any particular destination in mind; he'd been drifting for almost two years now, just going wherever the road happened to take him, learning as much as he could about new lands, their people… All an extension of his training, he supposes. However, he can't remember exactly what he was doing before… before that man found him unconscious.

That man… Cat furrows his brow slightly, remembering the other's deep blue eyes, the expression on his face as he helped him up… _His name is… Chrom? _That's what Lissa told him, anyway. What Cat can't figure out is why the man looked at him like that, or why, exactly, he knew his name.

"_You really don't remember anything?" _Cat presses his lips together as he remembers Lissa's question. Even after her explanations—her claims that he lived with these people for years—he still doesn't understand any of it. He'd been on his own for years, now. He hadn't lived with anyone for more than a week or two at a time. So how do… how do all of these people know who he is?

It's unnerving, to say the least. Cat's not sure if he wants to linger here, and yet something in him is telling him to stay, stay and figure out what's going on. That's the smart thing to do, he knows. A tactician has to be informed, and he can't deny that he _wants _to know, he just…

Cat starts a bit as Lissa speaks again, dragging him out of his thoughts.

"You should take it easy for a while, though," she's telling him. "Your body seems to be exhausted from…" Cat watches her as she hesitates for a moment. "Well, who knows?" she finishes lamely, with a slightly sheepish smile.

He frowns a bit. "That doesn't make sense," he mutters, half to himself. "I was perfectly fine…" But that's another thing he can't deny; how tired he feels, how heavy each of his limbs are. Sighing very faintly, Cat leans his head back against the wood and stares at the ceiling.

He's struggling… with all of this.

"You say…" He bites his lip for a moment. "You say I led your army?"

Lissa gazes at him for a moment before nodding, slowly. "Until two years ago. You went missing after the war."

Cat's frown deepens as he looks at her. "The war," he repeats. "The one you say started three years ago? Between Valm and Ylisse?"

Lissa nods. "Well, it was more Ylisse and Plegia, towards the end," she corrects.

Cat doesn't dwell on the detail; he can't afford to do that, not now. "And this man, Chrom." His eyes flicker over Lissa's face for a moment, searchingly. "He's… king of Ylisse? We fought together in the war?"

Here, Lissa's expression softens, until she looks tired and perhaps a little vulnerable. "You were very close," she says, nodding.

But that's not the point, and Cat doesn't like how it makes something tug slightly at his heart. The strange emotion—the _attachment_—isn't welcome, and he balls it up to shove in the back of his mind. "But…" He looks at his lap for a moment, hands grasping the sheet. "But Emmeryn was the Exalt…" Last he heard… and Cat had always made a point of staying on top of current politics. What… What happened to her, then? Ylisse's radiant and well-loved queen? He swallows, and his distress is visible on his features. Gods, the more he tries to figure this out, the less it makes sense in his head…

Lissa has gone still at his words, he notices, a bit belatedly. When he glances up at her, though, she starts a bit and takes a breath, blinking. "Emmeryn was killed in the war," she says, in a very small voice.

Cat's lips part a bit. _Ah… _That's right, he remembers suddenly. Lissa is Emmeryn's sister, isn't she? Realizing that he's stumbled over something sensitive, Cat falters and looks away again. "… I'm sorry," he says, without really thinking about it.

Lissa blinks at him for a moment, almost as if she's surprised by his apology, but then smiles a little sadly and shakes her head. "No," she murmurs, "It's all right. It's been a long time…" Here her smile wavers again, though, her eyes flickering over his face. "… You were pretty devastated at the time, too," she says suddenly, softly.

Something catches in Cat's throat. His eyes widen and he looks at Lissa with a sort of morbid curiosity. He… He was devastated? Over the death of a queen he never actually knew?

"Kept blaming yourself," Lissa explains after a moment, hands tightening a bit on the notebook in her lap. She leaves it at that, though; Cat can tell she's studying his reaction.

He gazes at her for a moment longer. "I don't… remember that," he murmurs at length.

Lissa nods. "You don't remember a lot of things."

Cat presses his lips together. "You understand," he says suddenly. "You understand if I can't quite believe all of this…" Because how can he? He can't… He can't remember anything. If what Lissa is saying is true, then the past… what, five years? They're just gone for him… That means he's… he's what? Who is he? What happened during that time? What is he missing? Suddenly, Cat's starting to feel a little ill.

Lissa nods again, standing. "I understand. But you'll have to accept it eventually." When she smiles again, her eyes are a little… apologetic? Pitying? Cat can't quite tell, but whatever the look is, he doesn't like it.

All it does is make him feel lost.

"Anyway, I there are some people who want to see you…" Lissa walks to the door and opens it for a moment, ducking out of the room. Cat watches her go and hears the faint murmur of voices, but he can't quite make out what they're saying. He takes the moment to try to compose himself, but he can't quite keep his hands from tugging nervously at the bedspread, picking at a stray thread in the trim.

After a moment, Lissa returns, followed by… a boy or a young man; Cat isn't entirely sure. As he looks up at the other, though, he stiffens, suddenly, eyes widening. This boy… He's… For a moment, Cat's not entirely sure what to think. All he can do is stare at the other, blankly, lips parted in disbelief. His expression betrays him right away; Cat doesn't recognize this boy as anyone but… anyone but _himself._

_He looks… just like me… _Almost anyway; the other's face is a bit more rounded than his, and he's perhaps the slightest bit shorter, and his eyes are a deep, forest green, rather than Cat's black, but…

_Why…?_

"This is Morgan," Lissa introduces, as the boy sits down beside him.

Cat gives her a sharp, searching glance, waiting for an explanation as she hesitates. _This, _he thinks, will certainly take some explaining…

When it comes, though, all he can do is stare;

"Your son."

… _What? _

Cat goes very still for a moment. There's just silence; his black eyes boring into Lissa's blue, his pale lips parted in a look that simply can't _believe. _This boy… This boy is his _son? _Cat doesn't know what to do for a moment, doesn't know how to think, so he just stares, and tries to breathe, until the silence starts to feel so heavy that he cracks and glances once at the boy with features just like him.

His… son?

It's impossible, Cat thinks. It's entirely impossible. He's never… he's never _been _with anyone like that; never as anything more than passing flings in the dark, and for him to have a son, that means… it was a _woman. _Which normally wouldn't be that surprising, but the fact is, Cat has never really _fancied _women. He swallows as his dark eyes stare into those green.

Morgan stares right back, and Cat blinks as he see his expression twist slightly, finally notices the way his brow is drawn into a sort of helpless, defeated look.

"You don't… remember me, do you?" Morgan says finally, voice wavering a bit like something in the wind.

Cat inhales and feels something sharp dig into his heart. He tears his eyes away tries to calm his pulse, mind racing._ Impossible, _he keeps thinking. _This is impossible. I… I didn't…_

"Father?"

Hearing that makes him wince, and suddenly, Cat finds that he's shaking his head, knuckles white against the sheets. "I… I'm sorry," he manages, haltingly. "I don't…" And suddenly his head is pounding; Cat closes his eyes, bending over slightly and pressing a palm to his temple. "I don't remember you," he murmurs, voice laced with frustration.

He doesn't remember… He doesn't remember, but somehow, something in Cat's bones tells him that this _is _his son, this… This feeling in his chest is tugging, and pulling, and he _wants _to remember, he does, but he…

"I can't." He takes another slightly shaky breath and then swears, softly. "Dammit…" What the hell is going on?

What's wrong with him?

Lissa's brow draws inwards and she places a hand lightly on Cat's tense shoulder. "It's okay," she says. Morgan throws her a wide-eyed, lost look; one that clearly asks, _How is any of this okay? _The cleric just presses her lips together, though, and forces a weak smile, because really, what else can she do? "It'll come back with time…"

"How do you know?" Cat asks suddenly, and Lissa blinks as he lifts his head, fixing her with a troubled, slightly desperate look. "How do you know that? What if I…" He falters. "What if I never remember…?"

Morgan feels something lodge in his throat and swallows, thickly. "D-Don't say that," he mutters, quickly. "You'll remember, father. You will…" He has to… Morgan tells himself this because there's nothing else he can do. This is still his father… He has to remember. He _will. _

Morgan tells himself this. Over and over…

Cat just stares at him, at a loss for words. This boy… How can he say that? How can he be optimistic at a time like this? Cat doesn't understand. All he feels is lost, and guilty for something he had no control over. These people… They must be telling the truth. There is no other explanation; even Cat can see the uncanny resemblance, and if they aren't related, then it's nothing short of magic. These people, they…

They _know _him.

A different side of him… a part of him that Cat doesn't even know.

But it doesn't make any sense… Is he really missing so much?

There's silence again. Even if he tries to hide it, Cat can see the hurt look on Morgan's face. "I'm sorry," he says again, finally. "I… I really am."

But Morgan just forces another smile that looks as if it's going to crack. "What are you apologizing for?" he asks. "It's not your fault…"

Cat can hear it, though; the disappointment in his voice.

He feels as if this is something he'll never be able to make up for.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Chrom's head shoots up when the door finally opens again. Morgan's gaze is trained on the carpet as he walks out, his expression tense and difficult to read, but he looks up when he feels Chrom's eyes on him, green meeting blue in silence. Neither of them speak for a moment. Morgan shuts the door quietly behind him, and then swallows, rubbing the back of his neck, nervously.

The silence continues. Neither of them knows what to say. And then finally, Sumia breaks it, hand fidgeting a bit in front of her chest. The look on her face is actually concerned, Chrom thinks—tells himself.

She doesn't know. She can't…

"How is he?" she asks, hesitantly.

Morgan is still for a while. Chrom watches his expression, but his eyes are back on the ground as he tries not to give anything away. It takes him a moment, but then the boy smiles; Chrom can tell that it's forced. "He's fine," he says, in a tone that it just a little bit too bright. "Totally fine. Just a little…" He pauses for a moment, smile twisting a bit, threatening to collapse entirely.

"Just a little disoriented," he finishes, but his voice is growing shakier with each word. "He probably hit his head or something. I'm sure he'll… he'll be back to normal in no time."

_Normal._

Chrom watches him, still silent and stone-like in his chair, as Morgan threatens to break. The boy's eyes are bright, his features drawn taut with the words that he doesn't believe. Finally, he shakes his head a bit and exhales, turning away. "I, uh… I'm going to head on to bed now, if that's alright." Though it's still early in the evening and Morgan has never asked for permission. He bows his head a bit. Chrom can see him biting his lip, hard. "Good night."

With that, he is hurrying away. Fleeing.

Chrom wants to comfort him, but he doesn't remember how to.

-o-o-o-o-o-

With a shaky hand and forced features, the king opens the door.

Chrom doesn't know what he wants to say to the other. He doesn't know what he wants to hear. For that matter, he doesn't know if he even wants to see him, if he'll be able to handle being so close. After two years, there is still something inside of him that says the other's name; something that makes him want to hear his, from those lips. There is something in him that hasn't forgotten, but Chrom doubts it will remember enough for the both of them.

So he steels himself as his eyes land on the other's, those chips of night that flash slightly in the twilight. Even so, he feels his breath catch a bit in his throat and has to force himself to exhale. Breathe, he tells himself. Just breathe.

Breathe, and think, and try not to feel. Look at this objectively; understand the situation.

But he can't.

Chrom stands in the doorway for a moment as Cat's eyes flicker across his face. He watches as his brow slants inwards in lack of recognition.

Lissa's gaze drifts between them for a moment. Then she swallows then, under the silence, and excuses herself. "I'll be right outside if you need me…"

But neither of them really hear her.

Chrom just lets her by, moving only a few steps further into the room before stopping, hands twitching and empty at his sides, lost. His face is white as his features try to decide what he's feeling. He is happy, he thinks. He's overjoyed to see the other again; here is Cat, the person he was searching for for so long, alive and well in his old bed, _back. _

And yet he's not. He hasn't returned yet.

Chrom forces these thoughts away with gritted teeth, and at the same time, the tactician finally breaks the silence;

"Chrom… Right?"

He's so uncertain…

And yet hearing his name, Chrom exhales, and nods, and actually manages to smile, just a bit. "That's right," he says, and takes a few more steps forward. There is a chair beside Cat's bed. Chrom doesn't want to sit in it—there is somewhere closer he would much rather be—but Cat's features are guarded and the walls are up, so he does.

The tactician tracks him with his eyes, almost warily. "… Are you going to tell me that we're related, as well?" he asks eventually, in a weak voice that doesn't quite match the jest.

Chrom stares at him, feels his heart skip a beat. Are they related? _Ha. _It's almost funny. Almost. "No," he answers after a moment, in a bland voice. "Not related."

And there is something in the way he says it that makes Cat's eyes narrow a bit. Though he doesn't actually move, Chrom can see him retreating. "Good," he breathes, in a tired voice.

"How are you feeling?" Chrom has to keep talking.

"Fine."

The lord nods. "That's good."

And then the air is dead again. Chrom can feel it growing cold around them. There is no flame as there once was; there isn't even a spark. _Breathe. _

The lord's eyes flicker uncertainly from Cat's to the floor. There's so much that he wants to say; he feels as if he's drowning in all of the words that have no place on his tongue, and there's absolutely nothing he can do about it. Cat is like an injured animal, and Chrom doesn't want him to bolt. He doesn't want him to leave. Not now. Never again. He can't…

Taking a breath, Chrom looks up again. Cat is still staring at him, fingers fiddling with the edge of the sheet. Chrom's eyes are drawn to the motion of pale white skin, and he pauses, lips parting a bit as he notices something for the first time.

"Your hand," he says.

Cat stops fidgeting and blinks at him, then down at his hands. "What?"

"Your right hand." Chrom straightens a bit. "Can I see it?" He holds out one hand of his own.

"Eh?" Cat stares at him, a bit suspiciously for a moment, and Chrom can practically see the question on his face before he even voices it. "Why?"

It was always like Cat to ask questions.

Chrom's smile is muted, his eyes a little softer than before. "Please."

There is another moment of tense silence, before finally, Cat caves, relaxing just the slightest bit. His eyes are reluctant, but he nods, very faintly, and hesitantly offers the king his white hand.

Chrom takes it in his own, gently, and gazes more closely at the perfect skin. Cat's right hand is soft in his own, the palm only the slightest bit callused from holding a sword, and… the back of it is blank. Unblemished. "You used to have a mark here," Chrom murmurs, softly, brushing his thumb over the spot where there used to be eyes. "Do you remember?"

Cat just stares at him in confusion. "… No?" he answers finally, hesitantly.

"You were so self-conscious about it, too… Always wearing gloves..."

Something flutters in Cat's chest. Chrom is still holding his hand, lightly, but he can't quite make himself pull back. The other's palm is warm against his own. Somehow, Cat thinks that it might even be familiar. He presses his lips together. This man… was his friend, wasn't he? His close friend… There is something else lingering on the edge of Cat's mind, but he can't reach it. Everything is out of reach. Chrom is familiar. Cat feels as if he does, indeed, know him, but his memories are nothing but voiceless shadows in the dark.

Slowly, Chrom brings his other hand up and holds Cat's with both of them. He bows his head a little more until Cat can't see his face, squeezing just the slightest bit so that Cat feels strangely warm. The tactician swallows, wants to say something, but…

"I'm just glad that you're back," Chrom says, though his voice shivers a little bit. "That's enough…" That's all he needs, he tells himself. That's all...

Cat watches him, at a loss, lips parted slightly. This man is feeling something for him, he realizes dimly. This man is shuddering because of him, and Cat feels none of that in return. He doesn't… feel anything more than a ghost, something that lingers in his heart and whispers words he can't make out.

He doesn't understand.

He doesn't understand any of this.

But he lets Chrom sit there and hold his hand in silence, because he can't bring himself to pull away.

* * *

**Next chapter; Cat tries to adjust and Chrom wins the worst husband of the year award. I do want to say that while I have the general plot of this roughed out in my head, for a lot of the actual content, I'm just winging it.**

**Also, I make this typo sometimes where I type 'Cat' instead of 'Chrom' and vice-versa. Stupid names, both starting with 'C'... Please let me know if any of you catch that and I'll fix them as soon as possible (goes for any other errors, too).**

***Note: Replaying Awakening has also reminded me that Chrom forswore the title of Exalt. Let me know if I slipped up somewhere and called him that. (Stupid BL and its lack of pronouns...)**

**Thanks for reading! Please drop a review if you can. Any feedback is highly appreciated.**


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